Thirsty
by Vellacora
Summary: After catching a bad cold and reliving a memory buried deep within the past, John wakes up to the world's one and only consulting detective offering him late night tea. Post-Reichenbach. S/J: Pre-slash/Slash
1. Earl Grey

Hello everybody! Wow, it has been a long time since I have last written, about five years, give or take. I usually just read fanfic now, but lately after reading so much Sherlock fanfiction it kind of inspired me to start writing again (a whole summer's break with nothing to do helps too). Even though this isn't my first fic, I am counting it as a first since it's been forever since I last wrote so the experience felt pretty new again, kind of like learning how to bake a cake without any measuring cups. Hope you enjoy this fic and feel free to review and tell me how my first attempt goes!

I do not own any characters in Sherlock as BBC has those rights. But a gal can wish.

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Chapter 1: Earl Grey

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He felt the burning sun on his neck as a bead of sweat rolled down, following the crevice of his back. The air was hot and dry but his body underneath all the armor, gear, and protocols felt sticky and uncomfortable. He didn't know what had happened next but the scene changed and he was running; his heart was beating in his chest like the bullets that pattered out from his companion's rifles. He kept running even when he looked back and saw that there was no one chasing. A sense of urgency kept pushing him forward even when his legs began to cramp and his throat felt like sand paper. The scene changed again but this time he was kneeling on the ground over a wounded soldier. He was pressing his hands against the young man's throat even when the blood continued to ooze out onto the dry sand. The young man was trying to say something but the more he tried to talk the more he choked and coughed up droplets of crimson liquid.

He tried to tell him to remain calm; that everything was going to be alright but all that could escape his mouth was a hoarse cry and him repeating the phrase, "I'm sorry, I am so sorry". He saw a water droplet sliding on the soldier's cheek before it ran down. He couldn't tell if the drop was from him or if the soldier had shed a tear.

Suddenly the injured soldier grabbed his shirt and pulled him close. The young man struggled to pull himself up a fraction off the ground as the blood continued to pulse out. Streams of blood trickled out from both sides of his mouth as he opened his mouth and whispered into the doctor's ear. He could barely hear it, the whisper as soft as sand shifting in the wind.

"…on…"

The soldier says it again, louder and rougher as he exerted the last of his energy before lying back down onto the dense sand. With a last shudder and a wet cough the young man looked up back at doctor where his eyes glazed over and his heart stopped beating.

"John…"

A sound akin to thunder boomed as pain blossomed from his shoulder. Another sound echoed louder as the scene began to change again, melting away into a blurry haze.

"John."

The world began to rumble and shake as his name was being called louder and louder.

"John!"

He woke up with a start to find a tall figure shaking and calling his name but it was too dark in the room to see. His training kicked in before he could stop himself as the scorching heat of the Afghan sun and the dusty atmosphere had seemed to have followed him. John felt his fist collide with what felt like a hard cheek before he felt something equally as boney and hard collide with his own face, pushing him back down onto the rumpled sheets of his bed.

He blinked a few times as he sat up and looked around. Memories of falling into a koi pond the day before while he was on a case with Sherlock began to resurface. The dark-haired genius had bluntly told a pretentious but naïve heiress that her fiancé was truly having an affair with not a woman, but with her limousine driver. She had been so outraged that she tried to hit him with a nearby porcelain vase. With an agility to rival that of a cat's, Sherlock quickly sidestepped the incoming vase only to bump into the poor doctor who stood a bit too close behind him. John quickly stepped back but realized too late that he was already standing on the edge of the pathway and fell into the pond. He remembered telling the consulting detective that he felt cold even after they returned to their flat, had a nice shower and a hot cup of tea. He had gone upstairs pushing his already aching joints to try to reach the comfort of his bed before promptly passing out once he felt his head hit the pillow.

He blinked once more to clear the last remaining image of his dream and of the memory of the pond to find Sherlock staring at him while nursing a swelling cheek.

"Did you just punch me?" John asked, as he tried to calm his still rapidly beating heart.

Sherlock just narrowed his eyes in response, "you had hit me first."

"I'm sorry." John replied guiltily while wiping away the sweat on his brow. Hesitantly he looked up at the genius. "Why are you in my room anyways?"

It wasn't the first time John has had nightmares, even when he had screamed murder at night and woken up swinging (he had at one point accidently punched a hole in the wall which left him with bruised knuckles). On occasions, after particularly bad dreams he will wake up and go downstairs to find a steaming hot cup of tea, but not once has Sherlock personally come into his room.

Sherlock undeterred by the question just crossed his arms and explained, "Even someone as incompetent as Anderson can see you are very unwell. You began shivering erratically in the cabbie, your leg began bothering you even before you began to climb the stairs, and your temperature is approximately 40 degrees C. Your nightly commotion has caused me to halt my experimentation on the new samples of liver tissue Molly has sent me and I am unable to focus." He finishes his statement snidely and with an upturn sniff of his nose.

John felt his face heat up with embarrassment that Sherlock had heard him through the thin walls of the flat. He mumbled another apology as he awkwardly ran a slightly shaky hand through his ruffled hair. He should have known that he was sick; the symptoms were all there and he simply ignored it in hopes that it was the case wearing off on him and that he hadn't had more than 4 hours of sleep per day. That would also explain the insanely vivid dream of a past he longed to forget; he usually only got them when he was very sick or drugged with anesthesia.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he took in his flatmate's reaction. "Please John, do stop apologizing or else you will be asked to join one of Mrs. Hudson's soap operas. As a doctor John, you must know that fluids are a necessity for sick patients." With a dramatic sweep of his blue bathrobe, he crossed the room before briefly stopping at the desk where John kept his laptop. Under the desk lamp sat two mugs of tea, still steaming and looking very inviting.

He looked back; his perceptive blue-grey eyes glinted in the darkness. "After my loss of concentration I decided that tea was necessary, however I've made too much tea for my own consumption and I know you are more than willing to help." He finishes his statement by picking up the two mugs and walking over to John's bedside to hand him one.

This night was becoming stranger and stranger, here was his supposed 'high functioning sociopath' of a flatmate' in his room who not only woke him up from a nightmare, but is now also inviting him to have late night tea with him. Sherlock was definitely acting odd, he was not carrying himself with his normal regal arrogance that he tended to uphold during a case or when he was irritated. John had caught the genius glancing at the wet clothes sitting in the corner of the room after he had not properly thrown it into the hamper.

John takes a tentative sip from his brown mug. Mhmm…Earl Grey and it was the perfect temperature. He looks up from his mug and hesitantly asks the question that had manifested in his mind as Sherlock continued to stare at the wet clothes. "Sherlock, are you…are you worried about me?"

A brief pause in Sherlock's actions as well the stiffening of his body posture told John his answer. Sherlock simply turned to look down at the steam arising from his own cup. "Don't be so banal John; I simply could not have you ill and moping around the house like some sort of inebriated office worker when there is much to be done around the city. Tomorrow we will need to see Lestrade about the testimony of the limo driver as the fiancé has made it clear that we were not to come near the vicinity of his estate. You must be there with me as I refuse to be alone in the presence of the dull workers at the Scotland Yard." He finished his statement with a slight grimace.

Was that really Sherlock's main reason as to why he is treating John with one of his favorite teas? Or was it really because he felt guilty for causing John to catch such an awful cold? John wasn't sure, but in the end he dropped the subject as he knew that was as far as Sherlock is willing to open up. A slightly awkward stillness filled the room as both men stared into different areas of the room, avoiding one another's gaze. Sherlock seemed to be incredibly fascinated with the few cobwebs in the corner of the room that John had forgotten to catch while John continued to stare down at the mug he held in both hands. Seconds felt like minutes as not a word was spoken between the two until John finally broke the silence.

"He was only 20 and had only been in Afghanistan for a year." John fiddled with his mug handle before continuing. Clouds outside the window had moved away, allowing moonlight to pierce into the room.

The more he told his story the more he felt his throat tighten up as memories of his fallen comrades floated back to the surface of his mind. The more he remembered, the more prominent the image of a baby-faced, blond haired Caucasian began to appear.

His name was Darren and he had warm, chocolate eyes that never seemed to dull with fatigue or pain; instead it would brighten more with resilience. He was friendly and comforting, a great contrast to the harsh environment. His ability of cracking jokes and making people laugh became a welcomed relief as the days seemed to stretch as far as the dunes of sand they had to tread through. He was still so full of optimism, talking about how the hardship of being a soldier was lessened when he knew he could help relieve others' of their pains, even if for a while.

Bright, and brave, he was the poster child of hope and promise.

Then, hell exploded around them. Gunfire, shouting, and sand filled the air as they tried to find cover from the relentless bullets. Everything happened so quickly and before John fully could assess the situation, he was already kneeling next to the young man on the sand. Darren was bleeding out fast. A piece of shrapnel had cut deep into his carotid artery. He was going to die. John knew there was nothing he could do; this wasn't the first time he had seen death, but for some reason the pain was overpowering.

He apologized profusely for reasons that to this day, still did not understand to what he was apologizing for. Maybe he was apologizing that he couldn't save him, or maybe it was because the world was going to lose another great person. As he kneeled on the sand trying to staunch the blood flow, Darren had pulled John close and whispered into his ear.

"…_It's ok, it's alright…"_

Darren had died with a sad smile on his lips as John watched the life slowly flicker before dying out from the once warm eyes of a fallen comrade. A beloved friend.

John had to look up from his mug and instead focused on the moon shining brightly outside. He took a deep breath, his inhale felt shaky and uncertain.

He felt himself jump slightly when he felt the bed shift. Sherlock had risen off the bed and signaled with his hand for John to relinquish his cup. John looked down and was slightly surprised to see his cup already empty. He hadn't realized he had already finished; he must have been thirstier than he realized.

He hands the sturdy mug over to patiently waiting hands as Sherlock takes it and walks over to the doorway. He pauses right before taking another step out and looks back, his gaze is unwavering and piercing as the moonlight seems to make his eyes even more dramatic. John looks away when Sherlock's eyes become too intense; it made him feel vulnerable and exposed.

Sherlock's deep baritone voice cut through the silence of the room. "John, do not apologize for an event that you could not have predicted nor prevented. As with any war it is not the fighting that is the inevitable, but the casualties that are inflicted. Your comrade knew the hazards of becoming a soldier and he died accepting these risks. He would not have given up his life so easily if he discovered how much grief his death would cause. Instead John, be thankful that his death was quick and that you were there to help him in his final moments."

The dark-haired genius turned his attention back to exiting the room right before he gave a final glance past his shoulder. "Be thankful that you are still here, as the evidence from the wound on your shoulder can suggest. I can name a few not unfamiliar companions who are. Go to bed John, you will be needing your rest for tomorrow. I will not have my blogger trailing behind me and slowing me down."

He left with not so much as a flutter of his bathrobe as John continued to sit in stunned silence. He slowly lowered his head back onto his now cool pillow and tugged his blanket higher. He was still trying to comprehend the night's events; from the nightmare, to the rude awakening, to the sudden confession, and until finally the oddly comforting words his flatmate had supported.

Sleep had finally began to tug his eyelids down once more as his stomach filled with warm tea continued to soothe his body. Instead of the usual cruel sun beating down and the sticky blood coating his hands, his dreams were now filled with laughter and bizarre stories told over a campfire in the middle of a quiet and cold desert. He dreamt of Darren sitting on the sand talking animatedly and maybe, just maybe he saw the young man lift his eyes from the fire, and mouth the words, 'thank you' before looking away and continuing his story.

He slept that night feeling better than he had felt in a very long time. He wasn't quite sure what made him dream of Darren a second time that night, but after that he no longer had any more nightmares concerning the baby-faced soldier dying in his hands again.

* * *

He woke up to Sherlock's rapid violin playing as the consulting detective played with a fervor that could only be described as him becoming excited at a new lead. By the time John had gotten up, taken a shower, shaved, dressed, and gone downstairs his flatmate was already gone. Next to Sherlock's violin case on the coffee table sat another steaming cup of tea with two slices of buttered toast. A post-it-note was left on the cup:

'_Couldn't wait. Finish eating and meet me at the Scotland Yard. Murderer is the estranged fiancé.'_

John took a long sip of the tea; he gave a relieved sigh as the warm liquid relaxed the dry inner walls of his throat. He felt his body sag with relief against the couch as he didn't realize how dehydrated his body had been as the only thing he really had to drink was the tea from the night before. He quickly finished off the perfectly buttered pieces of bread before grabbing his usual jacket and headed for the door.

That night after a good case, Sherlock eventually gave in to John's demands for food for the skinny consulting detective's body. After a well-deserved dinner at Angelo's (by candle light as usually, even when John had tried to voice his opinion), the two were back at 221B Baker Street. The second John took off his jacket and shoes he collapsed promptly onto the couch in the living room. His cold was not completely gone and he felt the exhaustion of his body wanting him to rest.

"John, unless the case was too taxing on your mind or the fever had given you temporary amnesia there is a bed upstairs for you." He narrowed his eyes as he continued to observe the tired doctor. "Perhaps you have caught the stupidity that seems to linger in the air around Anderson, if so then I must perform a craniotomy to test this hypothesis."

"Sherlock, get near my head with a scalpel and you can kiss goodbye to all your experiments. And yes I know of the mold experiment that you've been keeping in the box, behind the vacuum, in the supply closet." John tersely replied as he lazily waved a hand in the direction he was hoping his flatmate would be in. He was much too tired to even care at this point as his eyes remained closed.

The last thing he remembered before giving in to his body's demands was feeling a thick and heavy blanket covering his body and hearing the deep, velvet-like voice he had become so accustomed.

"Good night John."

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Author's Note

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Whew, finished. This took me a lot longer than I thought it would, but I'm glad I decided on it and completed it! I feel very accomplished :)

I called this story Thirsty, because of that feeling, you know, when you are so thirsty that it seems to hinder everything that you do and when you finally get that drink of water or that something that you crave it is like the best thing in the world. It feels like everything is right, even if just for a moment and your whole body just seems to breathe a sigh of relief. That's what I kind of see in the relationship between Sherlock and John, whether on the show or in the fanfic that I love to read, everyone can clearly see that their friendship is something they both need.

Writing their personalities was a bit difficult too. I cannot tell you how many times I wrote their lines or their actions, only to have to erase it all and having to start over again. I hope in the end I was finally able to get it down, or so I hope. At least close enough so that it isn't a total divergent of their characters.

So tell me, was it a hit and miss? Or is it something worth continuing. I originally decided to write this as a oneshot, but I might continue this into a multi-chapter, slow building love story. I'm kind of a sucker for this pairing if you couldn't tell. It's a guilty pleasure of mine, like eating from the peanut butter jar with a spoon.

Oneshot or continuation? Please leave a review of what you think!


	2. Chamomile

Hello Everybody!

So, I decided to continue this fic and make it into a slow building romance fic. The more I thought about it, the more I just wanted to write and add more incidences of the two having moments.

Thanks to all who reviewed the first chapter, it made me so giddy when I read them that it just gave me more incentive to continue.

Enjoy the chapter!

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Chapter 2: Chamomile

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This sucked. This really, utterly sucked.

You know that cold John had before? Well it's back stronger than ever and was making the poor doctor wish that tissue didn't feel like the ass of a rhinoceros. He was a doctor and he should have known better than to continue to follow the mad genius around London while still battling a cold. After that great night of rest he felt prepared to tackle on another case with Sherlock and completely disregarded the number one rule of being sick. Don't immediately stop taking medicine once you think the cold is gone, especially if you were still sick the day before.

Now his cold had transformed into the flu and John was suffering. It felt demeaning that a group of tiny microbes could create so much havoc in the body that it could bring down a proud and strong soldier that is trained to kill, down to a sniffling sick puppy.

It also didn't help that doctors do make the worst patients.

John had temporarily relocated to the couch in the living room. Climbing the stairs to get to his room and then needing to climb down for food and medicine was just becoming too troublesome for what it was worth.

He woke up with his head pounding, his nose clogged, and his mouth feeling dry yet sticky at the same time. He painstakingly got up from his position on the couch to take a quick look around the room. Sherlock seemed to have already gone out as the consulting detective was not in his usual corner of the room or in the kitchen conducting more of his experiments.

For the next 45 minutes, John slowly shuffled around the flat while trying to fulfill his recent daily routine of going to the restroom, cooking food, stomach the awful tasting medicine down, and then finally resting back onto the couch. After placing his omelet on the coffee table and settling back onto the couch with a small grunt, he turned his attention to the television. He let out a very exasperated groan as he realized he had left the remote control on the armchair across the room.

After heavy consideration and grumbling as he debated whether or not it was worth sitting through infomercials or getting up, John finally decided that the advertisements of bras and household appliances would probably sooner kill him.

As he got up and began his slow shuffle towards the remote, he did not notice the long blanket he had draped over his shoulder had begun to drag in front of his left foot. He did notice however when he finally stepped on it and the blanket dragged his shoulder down; causing him to lose balance. Gravity seemed to be doing an exceptional job as his body fell forward and his head collided with the table corner.

Nightmares of Afghanistan were now dwindling after the advice Sherlock unexpectedly helped with. Instead it seems his mind decided to settle on another demon as he saw Sherlock jump over the side of the building over and over again; as if he was watching a tape on constant reply. He knew he was dreaming. Sherlock was back, he was safe; he apologized and explained patiently to John the situation as many times the doctor asked for. After a good punch and two weeks of sulking, arguing, and then finally accepting, things were back to normal.

Sometimes he dreamt of Sherlock jumping and other times he dreamt of Sherlock blaming him while he slowly died in his hands, but every time he had such nightmares he would quietly plod down the stairs to find the tall man sitting in John's armchair; plucking at the strings on his Stradivarius. The consulting detective would look up before silently standing up and perform a gentle nocturne as John would settle onto the couch, lean his head back and close his eyes; listening to the sometimes sad, but beautiful melodies that Sherlock was always able to produce.

The two grown men never discussed to one another about these late night occurrences, it just became something that was normal for them. Maybe it was still Sherlock apologizing to John, or maybe it was just because he didn't like to sleep for long periods of time, but John never questioned it as that was just who Sherlock was.

Because of nights like those he hadn't had dreams of Sherlock leaving him that fateful day in so long. Like the dreams of Afghanistan, those dreams became something he simply tried to bury away. However, as John watched helplessly on the ground as he saw his friend take the leap again, he couldn't help but look down at his shoes before hearing bones crunch and the pedestrians around scream. A few tears fell onto his shoe and onto the ground as he clenched his fist; silently wishing for the nightmare to stop.

* * *

When Sherlock quickly bounded up the stairs to the flat he was already frustrated and bored. Earlier he had received a call from Lestrade saying that he was needed for a case and left the flat that he had been cooped in with the sick doctor. After quickly arriving at the scene he was already able to deduce who the murderer was in less than an hour and then to further agitate him, Donavan had to ruin his day even more by criticizing his methods of deduction and the ideals of human morals.

As he opened the door he felt his breath catch in his throat as the sight before him made every muscle in his chest tighten uncomfortably. There was John, lying on the floor on his stomach and his face turned to one side with blood splattered around the carpet.

He took a tentative step before taking two strides over and kneeling next to his unconscious flatmate. He began shaking the shorter man vigorously; panic was rising in his throat like bile. Maybe Moriarty lied; he still had snipers positioned the whole time. Sherlock gave a quick shake of his head. No, it wasn't possible, he had personally hunted down and destroyed all of Moriarty's connections and associated criminals. Everybody he cared for was safe, Lestrade was safe, Mrs. Hudson was safe.

John was safe.

Right before he was about to hit the last number to call for emergency on his cell, John slowly opened his eyes while blinking the last few watery remnants of his dream.

"Sher..lock?"John asked as his head was pounding even harder than before and his throat felt rough. Was his head on Sherlock's lap or was the flu causing him to hallucinate?

Suddenly the consulting detective grabbed John's face and quickly turned it to the right, then quickly to the left. At first John was worried that Sherlock had finally snapped become homicidal and was trying to break his neck.

"Woah, woah Sherlock, slow down," John said as he tried to bat the persistent hands away, only to have his own swatted away. "What are you doing?"

"What am I doing?" Sherlock seemed very appalled at the accusation. He pulled back and stared at John as if the he had grown a second head.

"What are you doing?! Lying on the floor like that, I thought you were D-"He stopped himself before he could finish his sentence. Instead his face grew pale and he opened his mouth once more, before closing it again.

"What did you think Sherlock? Did you… think I was dead?" John pushed himself up into a more comfortable sitting position as he continued to stare at his quiet flatmate. The more Sherlock refused to make eye contact or talk, the more it answered John's question. The sandy-haired man sat back and gave a small chuckle.

At the sound of John laughing Sherlock turned his attention back. He narrowed his eyes as he began to speak with increasing contempt. "Is that so funny to you? What else was I supposed to think? You were bleeding on the floor in a alarming position and did not respond to any of my repeated attempts at rousing you. So yes John, I thought you were dead, now if you excuse me I will no longer be your entertainment for the evening." As Sherlock made to get up and leave, John quickly grabbed at the bottom hem of his coat.

"Wait, Sherlock, I wasn't laughing because of that. I just found it ironic that it seemed to be your turn to be so worried when you constantly make people worry about you. And what did you mean blood? I may have fallen and hit my head on the table but I didn't hit it hard enough to cause a concussion and the table corner is rounded so I couldn't have cut myself." John finished the statement with a grimace as he rubbed the bruise that would sure to swell by the next morning.

John craned his neck around at the 'blood' Sherlock had pointed out. He dipped his finger in the red liquid and began laughing.

"Sherlock! This isn't blood! It's Ketchup! I must've hit my plate with my omelet over when I fell and I had ketchup on the side."

True to John's word; as Sherlock looked past the table, there laid a sad, squished looking yellow omelet that was also slightly smudged with the red condiment. He looked down his tailored coat to see that in his haste to reach and pick up John, he had gotten the sweetened tomato paste onto his clothes as well. John seemed to have seen this too as he began laughing even harder.

Sherlock felt his face slowly begin to flush as he mentally berated himself. How could he have been so foolish to not have noticed that ketchup was clearly nothing like blood; he didn't even bother to check John's pulse. He had been so focused; so fixated on the unmoving body of his flatmate that he ignored safety precautions and logic. It was needless to say, frightening at what he had demoted himself in the face of losing John again. He was snapped out of the uproar of his mind as John's laughter was riddled with hoarse coughing

"You should see the look on your face right now!" John choked out as he pointed an accusing finger.

Sherlock returned the gesture with a frown as he began to take off his coat and scarf. "Hilarious John, if something as petty as this amuses you, then perhaps you should amuse yourself further to see that you are covered as well."

John's laughing faded as he looked down only to curse a second later. Sherlock only had a few splotches of ketchup on him. He however, was not only covered with the sticky red substance, but he also had bits of egg in his hair. As he picked out a large eggy chunk he couldn't help but laugh again. How such an awful morning would become this was beyond anything John could ever have thought up.

Sherlock gave one of his rare smiles that he reserved privately as his flatmate continued to surprise him. As he swiftly caught the shorter man who was still slightly dizzy from the fall with steady arms, he couldn't help but feel his body relax knowing that John was still alive. The sturdy, real weight that rested against him helped temporarily ground his ever running mind. As John continued to laugh and mumble in a curse or two Sherlock began to feel his heart pound a little bit harder.

* * *

It took the both of them an hour to clean up the mess. It turns out that squished egg is pretty difficult to completely rid from carpet. By the time the room was as spotless as it was going to be and the two men were ketchup and egg free, the sun had set and the lights of the city were already shining.

John was once again settled back onto the couch after a hot shower; comfortable and cozy with a cup of Chamomile tea. The steaming drink did wonders for his dry throat.

Just as he finished his cup and placed down onto the coffee table, Sherlock had also finished his shower and had settled onto the armchair. His hair was still wet, matting down the unruly curls where the towel around his neck caught escaping beads of water. He began quickly flipping through the channels.

"Oh wait, stop at that channel," John quickly exclaimed as he recognized a movie he liked. Sherlock looked over his shoulder at the content looking doctor with a raised eyebrow.

"Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban?"

John shrugged his shoulders as he continued to keep his eyes trained on the television screen. "Hey, it is a pretty good movie. You know, wizards, magic, sacrifice, good, evil, and a rampaging noseless mass murderer who is constantly being bested by a teenage boy. A classic."

The dark-haired man simply gave a disinterested look as he began to get up.

"Wait."

Sherlock stopped his movement as he looked over at the sick doctor who had his hand slightly outstretched. John slowly reclined his hand "Could you just stay and watch with me? At least, until I fall asleep?"

The dark-haired man seemed to contemplate his words before answering. "I need to turn over the kidney in the fridge. It's imperative that it is turned periodically so I can observe the conditions of its decay." He paused as he got up. "But I will be back and watch the movie with you."

He left with a quick flutter of his blue bathrobe and John heard him open the fridge. The clanking of the glass casserole plate Sherlock had stolen from Mrs. Hudson could be heard sliding out of the fridge before it slid back in and Sherlock was back in the armchair.

As Sherlock tried to settle in, drawing in his long legs into what seemed to be an uncomfortable position, John felt himself give a soft sigh of contentment. It was almost odd, how this moment was. Sitting in front of the telly, watching a family movie instead of their usual frantic chases around the city and late night investigations; it was almost domestic.

As they continued to watch Harry's dilemma on screen, John felt the Chamomile relax his body and allowing sleep to incessantly pull at his eyelids. Right before he gave into the sweet darkness he was able to softly murmur one last declaration of his gratitude.

"Thank you Sherlock, for staying."

At first, the only noise that could be heard was from the television and a passing car outside the window. Then a reply was given so quietly that if John hadn't been paying attention to his flatmate he would've missed it.

"Thank you for being here when I got back."

* * *

Author's Note

* * *

Ugh I cannot even begin to count how many times I get sicker from not following the medication's directions. I usually just stop taking the drugs when I feel better and then the virus mutates into this horrible asshole of a fever and I just regret everything at that point.

Also don't take Dimetapp and have Chamomile tea together. That's how I epically failed my history test in high school because I thought it was a good idea to take the two together and go to school. I failed the test because I fell asleep through half of it and ended up randomly bubbling in answers towards the final minutes of it. Lesson learned.

Anyways I digress. Woo! Finished another chapter! Hoped you enjoyed this, if you did, look forward to more chapters of their slowly awakening relationship in the future. Reviews are much appreciated!


	3. Blood Orange

Hello!

Thanks for the reviews, alerts and favorites everybody! Love, love, love them!

Here's another chapter, Enjoy!

* * *

Blood Orange.

* * *

The music was pounding in a hypnotizing rhythm as the smell of alcohol and sweat floated through the air. Bodies of all sizes and shapes continue to gyrate and move with the beat of the song, a place where the young want to live their lives and feel free with the help of company and intoxication. Yet, here was John, dressed up in a cheesy doctor's costume, trapped up against the wall with two thin, yet strong, arms pressed up against on both sides of his head.

He looked up at his captor and felt diminutive in comparison as the steely glasz-colored eyes pierced into his own hazel.

"Sherlock? What, what are you doing." John said as he tried not to sound nervous. He tried to move away, out and under his flatemate's arms but the dark-haired genius simply pressed closer with his body.

John was caught.

Sherlock's long black cape concealed the smaller, compact man as he continued to tower over him. His eyes were predatory and ominous. He leaned down and whispered in John's ear; his baritone voice could be heard past the booming stereos.

"Shhh…John, act natural. We're at a club, just have fun." As Sherlock pulled back to stare into terrified eyes, he gave a sinister grin. Despite the large amount of heat generated by the moving bodies, John felt goosebumps rise as he saw a fang glinting in the dim lighting . How did his night get to be like this?

* * *

_4 hours earlier…._

"So you think that…erm, I'm sorry could you please repeat that again?" John asked as he rubbed his temples. Today just wasn't one of those days for John. He just got back home from a long and exhausting surgery to see Sherlock holding out a costume for him.

Although it was Halloween, and it was tradition to wear costumes, there was no way John was going to wear that tacky, cheap doctor's costume.

Sherlock dramatically rolled his eyes as he explained to John again. "A client by the name of Becca came in earlier with the request for me to find out if her boyfriend is cheating on her. She claims that after a passionate argument he left and has been missing for three days and Becca is desperate for her boyfriend to return back to her in time to celebrate today's holiday for fake horror and dental decay. "

John crossed the room to put his jacket onto the coat rack before he turned around and gave a questioningly look. "And you're really going to help her? This doesn't really seem like a case that you would normally take or has there been already been a murder; any dead bodies I should know of?"

Sherlock plopped down onto the armchair, the doctor's costume still in his hand. "After the brief meeting I had with this client I had deduced that she is an avid stalker, judging by her fingernail biting habits, uncombed hair, stains on her clothes, and the heavy, dark rings under her eyes, she has been quite stressed from the loss of her love interest."

John scoffed, "How do you know that she just isn't upset at losing her boyfriend?"

The consulting detective gave an exasperated sigh, "Oh John, my dear blogger, it is as clear as day as to how the mental state of this client is. During the interview she occasionally would glance at her shoes or look over her shoulder, a nervous habit developed at a young age by insecurity and unreasonable paranoia. As she talked about him she would repeatedly stroke the picture she had of him and judging by the weathered state of the photograph, she has been doing it for quite some time. And do you really think a girl like her, can get a guy like this?!" Sherlock held up a picture to exaggerate his point.

John took a step closer and peered at the worn looking photo. The 'alleged' boyfriend was handsome to say the least, dark brown hair that was cut into stylish hairstyle, green vivid eyes accentuated with dark lashes, and a smile that could drop the panties of every hormonal teenager in a fifteen feet radius.

He looked up from the picture, "maybe she has a great personality?"

"Highly unlikely, I doubt he barely would give her a second glance as the picture was taking candidly; he probably doesn't even know she exists."

"Wow, that's a bit harsh don't you think?" Sherlock merely gave John a look before John continued, "Anyways, you still haven't answered my first question, why this case?"

Sherlock gave a gleeful smile, "Seeing as how she gave me a list of where he might be, she already has followed most of his activities, and hobbies. She had already gone ahead to continue her search and left me her number; telling me to contact her if I have found him. She is eager to find him, almost too eager, and the way she spoke of how he could possibly be with another woman was very troubling. John, we must find him before she does, because if we don't we might actually soon have a dead body!"

Only Sherlock would be happy about this

"So, I assume that this costume is going to help you find this mystery guy." John said as he begrudgingly took the store-bought costume.

"Where would a young single adult male go on a Halloween night to find other young single women?"

"A club?"

Sherlock gave a nod of approval. "Club _Sinsational_, to be precise as it was on the list of the many places the stalked victim goes to on his free time. Tonight the club is having a promotional event where anyone could get in, as long as they are in costume."

The sandy-haired man continued to look at the costume with distaste before looking up. "Wait, what are you going as?"

* * *

A vampire. Sherlock had chosen the classic Dracula outfit, complete with the black billowing cape, slicked back hair (or as much as Sherlock could slick down with product), and plastic vampire fangs that went over his real teeth.

John felt silly as they arrived at the club. He felt out of place as he considered clubs to be for much younger adults, and the plastic stethoscope around his neck wasn't helping either. It was hard to navigate through the dancing bodies as the club was packed with monsters, ghosts, celebrity look alikes, angels, and devils.

He felt Sherlock suddenly take hold of his hand and pull him towards the bar. As John leaned up against the table he heard his flatmate trying to shout over the music.

"Do you see him?!"

As John looked over the crowd he spotted the young man who was dressed as a fire fighter and grinding against a Marilyn Monroe copy.

"There!" He shouted as he pointed in the general direction. As Sherlock looked over at he gave a curt nod before disappearing in the mass of people. John was left alone at the bar as he already lost track of where his eccentric flatmate had gone to in the sea of bodies.

He felt a hand caress his shoulder and turned around. Next to him was one of the sluttiest nurse costumes he has ever seen. The redhead who continued to rub his shoulders had ruby red lipstick, heavy smokey eyes, and a body that was all curves. The costume did little to help the imagination too as she seemed to be about one jiggle away from showing a nipple. A slutty nurse and a doctor? Seemed like a bad joke or a start to a porno, and he almost laughed out loud but stopped when he smelt the alcohol on her breath.

"Doctor, I think I need a check-up!" She sloppily said as she tried to maintain what she thought was a sexy face.

John tried to back away from her grabby hands and from her mouth as she looked like she was going to hurl junks soon. Suddenly he felt his back hit something solid and a black cape swirled over him as hands came around and hugged him from behind. He craned his neck around and saw his flatmate looking quite territorial.

"Sorry, but I'm going to need the good doctor for a blood test." Sherlock practically purred as he began pulling John away.

The last he saw or heard of that girl again was her giggling over the bar counter as she loudly shouted, "THAT'S HOT!"

The army doctor soon found himself pressed up against a wall in the club, looking into the brilliant and intimidating eyes of his flatmate.

"Sherlock? What, what are you doing."

"Shhh…John, act natural. We're at a club, just have fun." Along with Sherlock's feral grin, and his Dracula costume, John felt like the helpless damsel in distress he saw in movies. His eyes quickly looked around for possible escape route but Sherlock was quick and quickly blocked them up with another move with his body.

"Sherlock what about the case?" John asked in hopes of distracting the lips that were coming closer and closer. Right before he thought Sherlock was going to kiss him, the taller man quickly turned his head to the side to whisper in his ear again.

"John, do you see him?"

John looked past Sherlock's shoulder to find that they were actually right behind the guy as he continued to dance with his back turned towards them.

John's nod stopped short as he felt one of Sherlock's canine graze his neck. He felt more than heard Sherlock's whisper again as he felt the warm breath. "Good, now pay attention to what happens next."

Just as he said that, an angry scream that could rival a banshee's was heard close by. As Sherlock pulled away, John saw the stalker's love interest back away from the Monroe look alike. Another girl was yelling and screeching at him, her face was turning an alarming shade of pink and her eyes were wide with crazy. That must be Becca and boy was Sherlock right.

She wasn't a looker; in fact it looked like she hadn't bathed in a while as her hair was a tangled mess. John wasn't even sure as to what she was supposed to be as she was wearing a floral lace dress that looked like it wasn't even in her size, fairy wings, a rainbow scarf and john may be no fashionista, but even he could tell her that black stilettos with tiny metal spikes probably wasn't the way to go.

As she continued to yell, John was able to hear snippets of their conversation.

"Matty! What are you doing here with that SLUT!" She venomously spat out while pointing an accusing finger at the blond next to him. "We were supposed to hand out candy to all the kids in the neighborhood! BUT NO! When I tried to talk to you about the planning and costume coordination you just walked away from me like I never existed!"

The guy called Matty raised his hands, "Look I have no idea who you are, you suddenly came up to me at the market and tried to hold my hand, what was I supposed to do! I have never met you before in my life!"

Becca started crying as she fisted her greasy knotted hair, "After all that I've done for you! Who helped you pump your bike tires when the tires was flat? Who paid for your tabs at bars and called taxis for you when you were too drunk? ME! I did it for you because I love you!" She pulled at her hair harder as she gave a loud sob.

The brunette looked terrified. "That was you?! Oh my god, have you been stalking me?"

As she heard this she stopped crying and slowly reached into her purse. "I only wanted you to notice me, I just wanted you to like me how I like you. If you don't like me, then I have no reason to live!" She pulled out a large white ceramic knife and wildly held it up to her neck.

At this point many of the dancers were watching and quickly backed away once they saw her weapon. She lowered her weapon and looked down at it, tears still flowing down her face as lip quivered. "It's not my fault though, I did everything right but you still don't like me." She said as she looked up at Matty whose face was paling by the second.

She positioned the knife with both hands in front of her as she continued to shout hysterically. "Maybe if you come with me, everything will be alright. Come on Matthew, die with me. We are star crossed lovers, this was meant to be!" Matthew was terrified; he tried to back up and fell down onto his back as she quickly lunged towards him with the knife.

As the club goers screamed and ran away no one noticed a man dressed as a doctor quickly grab a black cape off a nearby vampire, nor did they see him use the cape to disarm her weapon before knocking her down and putting her in a submissive position on the ground. No one noticed but one dark-haired cape-less vampire who continued to watch with a satisfactory smile.

Taking down the crazy stalker was easy as John brandished the cape he took off of Sherlock in a giant wave. As the knife cut through the cape he quickly swirled the fabric around the blade where it stuck and he was able to pull the weapon away from her. Becca gave a frightening shriek as she ran towards the ex-soldier with arms outstretched like a witch from hell before she felt the breath get knocked out of her when John gave a solid hit to her Solar Plexus.

As he kneeled on her and held her hands behind her back he looked up at Sherlock who was frowning distastefully at Matthew; still on the floor and whimpering as he had wet himself.

"How did she find him?" John asked with a slight grunt while Becca continued to fight back.

The genius turned his attention to John as he said, "After we spotted him at the bar I left to go make a phone call. She did tell me to notify her when we found him, so I did."

"You knew this was going to happen didn't you?"

"Of course I knew, her obsession was making her act irrationally and when I phoned her and told her that her so called boyfriend was dancing with a buxom blonde, well it was only to be expected that soon or later that this was going to happen." Sherlock finished as he waved his hand towards the knife. "The only thing that I didn't count on was her horrible taste in costumes."

John just laughed as the police stormed in and lead the raging maniac away. "You're brilliant, but crazy, you know that?"

Sherlock gave the doctor a mischievous smile.

"I've been told."

* * *

Author's Note

* * *

You know the description for Sherlock's vampire look; well imagine his dark slicked back hair from Star Trek: Into Darkness but add in a black cape and some vampire fangs. Yeah, needless to say I got the major hots for a sexy, mysterious Benedict Cumberbatch.

Please leave a review! Reviews are much appreciated!


	4. Honey Green

Hello Everybody!

Thank you so much for all the reviews, alerts, and favorites! Whenever I see my inbox with new e-mails I become giddy with excitement! They fuel me like honey made by bees in heaven.

Enjoy!

* * *

Honey Green

* * *

"Where are you going?"

John looked back at Sherlock who was lying on the couch in his thinking pose, however he had one eye cracked open and staring intently at the shorter man.

John just grabbed his jacket off the coat rack and began putting it on as he continued to speak. "Going out."

"With whom?" Sherlock's voice was laden with blatant curiosity.

"Who said I was going out with anybody?"

"Your shoes have been shined, you aren't wearing one of your distasteful jumpers, but instead the green dress shirt that your last date said 'brought out your eyes', you just took a shower when you usually take a shower either in the morning at 7 or after a day at surgery at approximately 4:30. It is now 5 and you didn't have work today. You shaved and…" Sherlock took a deep sniff of the air. "You are wearing the new cologne that your 'delightful' sister bought you."

John at this point was looking down at the ground and had one hand grabbing the bridge of his nose. He should know better than to ask Sherlock a question anymore. "Sherlock, I will be back later tonight. Please don't create any more explosions or burn anything. The fire extinguisher is by the kitchen table."

"I don't try to make my experiments explode, and that only happened once." Sherlock replied snidely.

"Sherlock I was there and I saw what happened. Just behave." John said as he turned to leave. The last thing he saw before closing the door was Sherlock moodily flopping over on his side on the couch and drawing in his blue bathrobe.

* * *

Her name was Tiffany and he liked her; she was funny, smart, kind, and pretty. He met her at the supermarket when they both accidently reached for the same jam at the same time. It was like the beginning of a cheesy romantic movie. He asked her if she would like to grab something to drink and she agreed. After a couple of coffee breaks after work he asked her out to dinner, to which she agreed again.

So here they were, at a seafood dinner restaurant which was decorated to look like the inside of a ship. He liked her, he really did but as the conversation seemed to drag on he couldn't help but let out a yawn.

The action didn't go unnoticed as his date put down her fork and teasingly asked, "I'm sorry am I boring you John?"

John quickly shook his head, probably a bit too fast as he hastily responded. "No no no, I'm sorry I'm just a bit weary today, from work." He lied; it was just as Sherlock said, he didn't have work today. If anything, the most he did was update his blog and have an uneventful jog around the park before taking his shower and preparing for the date. He didn't know why but he suddenly thought of Sherlock or why the picture of Sherlock dressed up from a week ago as a vampire quickly flashed in his mind.

John quickly cleared his throat and tried to erase the picture from his memory; it wasn't working. He should really be focusing on his date, but every time he tried to think of something that really attracted him to Tiffany his thoughts shifted to piercing eyes framed with dark lashes or the dark velvety voice that had sent shivers throughout his body that night.

"You look lovely Tiffany." He promptly said in another attempt to forget about his flatmate and focus on the date.

Tiffany fluttered her long lashes in response, "Thank you, and you, I might add, are looking as charming as ever." She leaned her body slightly forward, accentuating her bust line with her low cut dress.

As she began to reach over to grab his hand she was interrupted when a plate was suddenly placed down onto the table between them and had to quickly draw her hand away. There standing live and in the flesh was the very man he had been trying to stop thinking about for the past hour and a half.

"Sherlock! What are you doing?" John hissed as Sherlock pulled up a chair he took from the adjacent table.

"I am eating pan-seared salmon on top of steamed seasonal vegetables." The dark-haired genius nonchalantly replied as he sat down.

"No, I mean, what are you doing here, at this table while I'm on my date with Tiffany!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock looked over at the dolled up date. Her pretty features were mixed with annoyance. He put on a fake smile that wasn't very convincing. "Ah! Tiffany, so sorry, didn't see you there. Mind passing the pepper?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. Do you mind going to a different table?"

"Tiffany I am so sorry, this is Sherlock, my flatmate. I thought he would be..." John tried to search for the right word. "Busy tonight."

"Oh, I never knew you had a flatmate." Tiffany looked over with an overdramatic gasp and covered her mouth with her hand before looking back at Sherlock. "My mistake, Shorleck, John never mentioned you." She finished with a mock eyelash flutter.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "It is Sherlock, and what a coincidence, John never mentioned you, but then again I don't blame him, there isn't much to mention about you is there, _Tiffany_." He said with venom dripping from each syllable.

"Sherlock!" John barked out. This was becoming increasingly embarrassing and he could feel his face heat up. He knew this was going to turn sour fast but Sherlock did not stop.

"Nails painted with a cheap, generic red nail polish, ridiculously overpriced perfume from a popular department store bought brand, and a dress that has seen better days but worn frequently as the seams are stretched in common areas where fat accumulates. Best to refrain from eating too much rich and fatty seafood appetizers, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock smirked as he looked down at her half eaten crab cake.

Her mouth had slightly fallen into a horrified gape. She looked at John, and then back at Sherlock.

"How dare you! Why I ought to-"She stopped; she looked like she was gasping for air, as her mouth opened once, then closed and then opened again as she tried to think of a good retaliation. Sherlock however beat her to it.

"You ought to what? Finish that sentence? Allow me to, you wouldn't want to further embarrass yourself this evening more then you already have. Especially after showing up and chewing with your mouth open like a boorish, unsightly camel."

She responded by splashing her cup of water onto Sherlock's face before grabbing her purse and storming out of the restaurant.

Sherlock merely took John's napkin and wiped the water away.

"What the hell was that!? Why would you do that?"

"That, John was a very ill-tempered, and dim-witted woman and I did that to save you from a future of regretful dates and bad decisions." Sherlock explained as he placed the napkin on his lap and began cutting into his salmon.

John clenched and unclenched his fist. He was trying to get his rage under control but the more he heard the dark-haired man talk, the angrier he was getting. Here he was trying to enjoy a normal civilized evening like what most people do, but instead his mind is filled with thoughts of that night at the club and when he was able to finally focus on his date, Sherlock himself shows up and verbally abuses his date into leaving.

"That was completely uncalled for. She was a good person and we were getting along just fine." John said, as he gave his flatmate a stern look.

"Good? Yes. Great? Far from it. At least for you. She was dull and tasteless and you would be pulled into a life full of dreary and pedantic routine."

John felt his temper rise like a tea kettle on the stove. "How would you know if she was good for me or not!? Maybe I want to settle down to a good, nice, and peaceful life with an equally good woman. Maybe I want that kind of life!" John quickly stood up. He quickly threw down enough money to pay for both his meal and his date's before staring furiously back into the eyes of his flatmate.

"Now I'm going to go and find her and I better not see you following me. If you are following me and I find out, let's just say, that reminding you how I was a soldier will be easier done than said. " John said in a hushed tone filled cold rage before he turned to leave. For a brief moment he saw hurt reflected in Sherlock's eyes, but he was too angry now at this point to care as he stormed out, leaving the consulting detective alone.

Sherlock remained seated at the table with plates on both side with half-eaten food. He looked at both side before continuing where he left off and took a small bite from his meal. The food settled to the bottom of his stomach in tasteless lumps; his appetite now gone.

* * *

Author's Note

* * *

This was a pretty short chapter; however it took me a lot longer to write than I originally wanted it to. I kept writing it and then rewriting it, even now I don't know if I am truly satisfied with what I wrote. Tell me what you think about it or any thoughts behind Sherlock's actions! Why does he have such a knack for ruining John's dates? Why does John like wearing jumpers? And why am I asking these questions?!

Leave a review!


	5. Assam

Hello, everybody! I apologize for the longer that usual update. I try to update within four days but this chapter took me longer to write and writer's block caught up to me.

Thank you for all the alerts, reviews and favorites! Here's another chapter, Enjoy!

* * *

Assam

* * *

Something was wrong in the apartment of 221B Baker Street. More specifically, something was wrong with Sherlock. It has been a week since the incident of the awful date and neither man spoke of the situation since then.

After John left Sherlock at the restaurant and had gone after Tiffany, he realized that maybe Sherlock's appearance was a blessing in disguise. He found her sobbing next to a phone booth, having a small psychotic break down and spent the next five hours trying to console her. Apparently when she was in college she was bulimic and was always self-conscious about her weight. She had gone to rehab and stopped her eating disorder a few years ago but admits to John (between heavy sobs) that she had been ignoring her diet and had now become a closet-eater.

Throughout the night she repeatedly clung onto John; crying into his shirt while whining out the occasionally, "Too fat to love, I'm not pretty enough_,_" or John's favorite, "I am an ugly blubberly flubbery whale."

When she had cried herself to the point of exhaustion and John's shirt was thoroughly soaked with tears, smeared make-up and possibly snot, he called her a cab, paid for it and then proceeded to wait for another before finally returning home. It was safe to say that he would not call for a second date.

It took three days for him to completely cool down from the incident and after that he was just angry that his favorite shirt was ruined.

It was just odd, how quiet the flat was now.

Sherlock was moodier than usual and would say little to John as he stayed in his room, instead of his usual spot in the living room or experimenting in the kitchen. The flat was even cleaner now as the consulting detective had also begun keeping some of his experiments isolated to his room. He would only come out to leave the flat or place a new test sample that needed a cool environment in the fridge.

It was bothering John and he couldn't exactly figure out why. Maybe it was because it felt too stagnant or maybe because it was nothing of how Sherlock usually acted and the change in pace was uncomfortable.

It felt like he was rooming with a ghost.

A couple of times he tried talking to Sherlock but all he got in response was, "I'm fine, I'm busy or I'm on a case and must not be disturbed."

Finally after a week of this John was tired. After Sherlock left, John made sure to barricade the room to Sherlock's door because at one point the consulting detective had simply walked straight past him, ignored his protest and shut the door. When he was done, John sat on the couch, turned on the television and waited.

When Sherlock did come back the first thing he noticed was the chair in front of his room with the skull sitting in the middle of the seat cushion. It stared back at him mockingly as if it knew a secret and wouldn't tell him.

When John heard the door open and the pause in Sherlock's step he quickly got up. "Oy, Sherlock I want to talk to you."

Sherlock just glanced at him before striding towards the chair but is quickly stopped as John steps in between.

"Hey I just want to talk to you. You know what flatmates normally do. Not this weird awkward no talking business."

That didn't seem to be the right answer as irritation emerges on Sherlock's face.

"Yes, I do recall that you liked normal." He said the word as if he were eating a sour lemon. "Unfortunately for you that is not something you will get by talking to me. Now move aside so I may get to my room."

"You see this is exactly what I am talking about. When did you ever go to your room besides to occasionally sleep in there? Hell, you seem to sleep out here more than you do in there!" John said with a frown. This conversation was not going the way he had rehearsed it in his head.

Sherlock doesn't answer him but tries to quickly move to the side to reach for the doorknob. John quickly grabs his hand and together they struggle for control.

"Sher..Lock!" John grunts out as he tries to fight off the taller man. "What are you hoping to achieve! I have the chair right here blocking it, stop acting like a child!"

Sherlock lets out a growl from John's statement and tries to lunge for the door again. His sudden movement catches John off guard where the shorter man tries to step back, only to have the chair hit the back of his legs. He feels his knees buckle forward and he begins to fall onto the seat cushion. Sitting on the couch would have been alright, if not for the skull he had placed there for good humor, and he was pretty sure getting a skull up his ass was the last thing he wanted.

With desperate hands, he grabbed at whatever was close by to prevent his fall, and it so happened that he grabbed the dark blue scarf Sherlock habitually wears. With one hand he quickly tugged the scarf and placed the other hand on the front of the armchair in hopes of preventing his fall. When he grabbed the scarf he quickly brought down Sherlock as well.

This was just one domino effect after another as Sherlock had to swiftly place a hand on each arm of the chair to prevent from falling down onto John and hitting his head on the top of the chair.

It was like déjà vu as they were frozen and locked in place. John looking up in surprise and Sherlock looming over with a face John could not decipher. For a while the two men said nothing, the moment was brief, maybe even seconds but it felt like minutes and John waited on bated breath, until finally Sherlock broke the silence with a soft cough.

"Can you push yourself up from the arm chair?"

His own voice slightly wavers but Sherlock dismisses it as a result from the scarf pulling on his neck.

Slowly John lets go of Sherlock to place his other hand on the chair for more leverage making him; hover awkwardly over the skull. Sherlock quickly stands up and straightens his scarf before offering a hand. John gives it a brief, cautious look, like a dog taking a hesitant sniff before taking it and allowing Sherlock to hoist him up.

When he was able to stand up without the threat of toppling back over onto the skull he looks down and sees that Sherlock had not let go of his hand. Instead the genius was simply staring at their hands where John could feel Sherlock's thumb caressing small circles on his skin.

Sherlock seemed to have notice what he was doing and suddenly pulled his hand away, as if he had touched hot metal.

This was definitely not how John had thought the day was going to turn out. He was supposed to talk to Sherlock, find out what the problem is, make up whatever said problem was between them and finally resolve everything with a possible dinner of take-out while listening to Sherlock talk to him about his latest case.

"Sherlock, please I just want to talk."

Sherlock looks up into the expecting eyes of his friend. "What is there to talk about?" He responds, feigning ignorance.

"You know what I am referring to. Ever since my date with Tiffany you won't talk to me, stay in the same room with me. You won't even look at me. If anybody should be angry it should be me, but I don't care about that anymore. What I do care is why you're acting like this now." John says as he continued to look with eyes filled with anticipation.

Sherlock didn't know where to begin, so he started with whatever first came into his mind. "N-Nothing is wrong. It was wrong of me to interrupt your…love interests. I was irritable; Lestrade would not stop contacting me with irrelevant information. Anderson had contaminated one of the evidence and was being more of a profound idiot than usual which is to say astounding in its own right. The waiter took far too long than was acceptable for serving me my meal and your date," Sherlock spat out, "was doing a fine example of making you seem like a common, boring plebeian which we all know is not true. She was not a natural blonde as she didn't even have the common sense to hide her true hair color as her roots are clearly that belonging to a brunette. Why would she even bother spraying so much perfume, her hairspray was pungent enough that I could barely smell my meal over it, and…"

As Sherlock continued to speak in a hurried and flustered manner, John began to have the most ridiculous idea. It was pretty far-fetched but it was fitting all the symptoms. Sherlock was rarely this disturbed, he does go on tangents and long speeches when he is excited with a case but he was rambling, about his date, about Tiffany, and about how he didn't like her perfume!

"Sherlock." John interrupts, stopping the dark-haired genius in his tirade. "Sherlock, are you jealo-"

_Vrrm…..Vrrm…_

John wasn't able to finish his sentence as suddenly Sherlock's phone started vibrating somewhere in his coat pocket. It vibrated twice signaling two texts.

Sherlock took the phone out of his pocket and looked through the texts. He quickly closed the phone and replaced it back in the pocket before re-adjusting his scarf once more.

"There has been another incident with the case I am working on. I must go now." He begins walking out the door without waiting for John to finish his question.

"Oy, wait for me!" John calls out as he quickly pulls his jacket off the coat rack and followed out.

* * *

How John lives with Sherlock is a mystery to Lestrade. The DI stood on the side with John as they both continued to watch the consulting detective throw out insults after insults at both experienced and inexperienced forensic scientists at the scene.

When Sherlock had finally vented out his anger he quickly strode over to the pieces of broken glass on the floor and took out his mini magnifying glass. He was like a hawk, inspecting everything, every crack, every cranny, anything that could be evidence was examined with a critical eye.

John walked over to Lestrade who was trying to reassure an agitated officer. "Hey Greg, what's the case?" John had gotten surprisingly close to the DI over the years. After a few pints at the local pub, Lestrade was a pretty fun guy to be around. It was relaxing for the both of them to just talk to someone who understood what it was like after being in the presence of Sherlock's eccentric behavior for too long. John also greatly appreciated to just have a drinking buddy and someone to occasionally vent to. It was better than talking to Mrs. Hudson who usually disapproved with Sherlock's antics and it sure beats talking to the skull.

Lestrade turns around and looks at John with faint surprise. "Haven't seen you in awhile, a rumor was going around the Yard that Sherlock was keeping you prisoner, an even nastier rumor was that he was conducting experiments on you and kept your head next to the toes in the fridge."

John gives a short chuckle before answering. "No, Sherlock likes to keep the toes next to the jam; I would most likely be kept at the bottom where the milk is. I've just been busy lately."

"I agree with you there. Sherlock has been keeping up the Yard with this case. It turns out that Mr. Phillips over there." Lestrade gave a short gesture with his head at the direction of a balding man in his late 40s. "Owns this jewelry store and over the past three weeks has been getting threats. At first it started with notes, and then one day he found their family cat nailed on the store's door. Ever since then he had called for Sherlock because no one has been able to figure out who was sending the letters or even how the perpetrator was able to get into their house and get the cat. Today Mr. Phillips arrived at the store to see that his window has been smashed open."

"What did the sender of those notes want?"

"The usual, a massive amount of money." Lestrade says with a scoff. "Hey I need to go and find the guy responsible for the CCTV tapes. Good luck with Sherlock, he's been very…touchy lately." Lestrade waves a quick goodbye to John before walking away.

John gives a responding wave before walking over to Sherlock who was hunched over a broken glass display case. "Anything to report?"

Sherlock jumps in surprise and quickly stands up, his head almost knocking into John's chin. "John, what are you doing here?!" Sherlock shouts, turning around so rapidly that his coat whips around him like a whirlwind. "Sneaking around, interrupting and blocking people from their work like some sort of needy child."

If John thought he was confused before, then he wouldn't know what to call his state of mind now. "I am here to help you. What's going on with you?!"

"I cannot think with you here. You are distracting me with all…all…All your John-ness! Leave, and make yourself useful by being away from me." Sherlock finished with a wave of his hand.

"Fine." With a final glare, John turns around and stomps away. Sherlock was being insufferable and John needed some fresh air. He walked out of the store and felt his anger bubbling up to the surface again. He let out a growl as he placed both his hands on his hips and looked towards the sky. He needed to calm down, but it was just so damn hard when talking to Sherlock was like talking to a bipolar, grumpy otter.

He felt a small tug on the side of the jacket and looked down. Pulling on the end of his jacket was a small girl, about five years old with bright green-hazel eyes and brunette hair, tied in a low braid.

"Want to go to the park with me?" She boldly asks. "Dad told me to not bother him but I don't want to go alone."

John looked over at whom she had gestured to and saw that she was pointing at the jewelry store owner, Mr. Phillips. Again she tugged onto his jacket even harder when John didn't respond quickly enough.

"Please, I don't want to play alone. My dad tells me bad people are making his tummy upset but you're not bad are you mister? You came with the tall man who is helping daddy so you must be good too. Please." She says with eyes, wide and pleading.

John just couldn't say no to that puppy face and he gave a small nod, allowing the little girl to happily take his hand and lead him across the street. The park was barely noticeable on the outside if not for the bright colors that could be seen peeking over the large hedges and bushes.

"When dad is too busy I usually come here with nanny, but now everyone is busy so I never come anymore." She said as she crouched on the ground and began prodding a caterpillar with a stick.

It was a nice park, John observed. It had a swing set, jungle gym, a sandbox in the shape of a fat submarine, and a seesaw. It was like in a world of its own as the area was enclosed in lush vegetation where the hedges grew tall, obscuring the view of the busy outside world along with towering shady trees.

The little girl stops her poking to turn around and look up at John. "Hey mister, why did you look so mad."

John at first didn't know how to respond and stayed silent.

"I know you are mad because my daddy has the same face when he gets mad. He thinks that I don't see it but his smile goes away, his eyes don't look happy anymore and he looks ugly." She looks up with wide eyes. "You look ugly too when you're angry. You won't find anyone pretty if you look ugly."

John couldn't help but laugh at her bluntness. He bends down to crouch next to her. "I was angry because a friend of mine was being very mean when I was trying to help him."

"My nanny tells me that when dad scolds me because I draw on his papers or I paint the cat, he does it because he loves me. Mister do you love your friend?"

John paused and thought about his answer. Of course he cared for Sherlock, he was his flatmate, work partner, friend, and maybe…maybe…something more.

He was so focused on the question that he didn't notice the heavy black boots stealthily walking up from behind them, nor did he hear the soft sound of a gun sliding from its holster. Before he could answer the little girl he felt the hard metal tip press harshly against the back of his head and an unfamiliar voice was heard directly above him

"Come quietly with us. Struggle, shout for help, or resist us and we will not hesitate to shoot you. Are we clear?"

* * *

Author's Note

* * *

Whew! Finished another chapter!

When I was writing the scene where John almost falls onto the skull, I couldn't help but laugh at myself as the idea that John didn't want to get boned up the ass popped up in my mind. Yes, I know I laugh at my own jokes, but hey it's what keeps me sane…Or insane. Meh.

Sherlock has his own humor too, I mean, come on, if you had toes that needed to be in the fridge, wouldn't you keep it next to the jam too?

Please leave a review! They are greatly appreciated and they are the best cure against writer's block!


	6. Chai

Thank you for all the wonderful reviews that I have received! I don't think I have received so many before from my last update! Loves and hugs for everybody!

Enjoy!

* * *

Chai

* * *

As John sat in the moving vehicle with a black cloth bag covering his head, he couldn't help but think, why couldn't the kidnappers find a better smelling bag. Really, it smelt of mold, dirt, and something slightly rotten.

He tried to count how long it took them to reach their destination, how many bumps he felt, and how many stops they made, but after 20 minutes, he was beginning to lose track. If only Sherlock was here with him. Not only would the genius be able to find out the exact location that they were intending to reach, he would probably also be able to decipher what kind of van they were driving, the model and the year it was built. No, no, no, he had to focus.

"_You know my methods…"_

He gave a slow inhale as he began to focus more on his surroundings. There were five men in the van with them. The little girl was sitting in the seat in front of him while he sat in the far back. Two men sat next to him, armed, and one sat next to the girl.

She was quietly sniffling as the man sitting next to her had threatened her to stop crying or else John would be getting a bullet in the knee. Traumatizing a child by kidnapping was wrong enough, frightening her even more with the threat that something as small as crying could jeopardize another's life was unforgivable.

The kidnappers inside were all male and were mostly silent except for the one that terrorized his companion and the two sitting in the front; arguing which radio station to listen to. He could hear the driver let out a hoarse cough every so often, a cough that he normally hears from patients who are chronic smokers.

John felt his body lurch forward as the van did a rough stop.

"Alright, get up." A gruff voice commanded as the owner of the voice violently pulled John forward. He felt his shoes hit the ground with a soft crunch as he got out of the van. The dirt was covered with loose gravel and at one point, John stumbled a little as his kidnappers continued to forcefully guide him forward.

He knew when they had entered a building; a warehouse most likely as he felt the air become slightly cooler from the shade, the ground became smoother as dirt changed to concrete, and their footsteps could be heard echoing throughout the vast building.

Finally they stopped walking and John could hear what sounded like a metal gate sliding open before he felt a harsh push that propelled him forward and he hit the ground. He fell hard on his chest and on the side of his face as he was unable to use his zip-tied hands to break his fall.

He hears a soft thud next to him and a nearby whimper before the sliding of the metals gates was heard again. A single clicking sound was what alerted to John that they were finally locked in and after a minute or two later the sound of heavy booted footfalls were heard walking away.

When John was sure they were alone he rolled over onto his back and pushed himself up with a grunt. The kidnappers decided to leave the black bags on so John had to slowly inch his way blindly to one of the walls of their metal prison to lean against. When he finally felt his back hit the metal chain link fence he gave a soft exhale of relief. Either he fell near the side of their cage, or it wasn't that big to begin with.

"Are you alright." John asked, as he slightly adjusted his position. He felt his foot nudge a solid object which turned out to be the girl as she jumped from the sudden motion. He heard her slowly push herself towards him and then a small dip of the fence to his right alerted him that she was now sitting next to him against the fence as well.

"Y-yes. Mister are you ok? I saw them hit your tummy." Earlier, for good measure, one of the men decided to 'roughen' John a bit to show him who was in charge and had punched him in the stomach. Not hard enough to rupture or bruise any organs, but hard enough to knock the breath from him and make his knees feel like jelly."

"I'm fine, don't worry about me. Did they hurt you?"

He hears more rustling to which he assumes is the girl shaking her head. "No…but they pushed me too hard and I fell on my knees. It hurts."

"It's going to be alright, what is your name?" John says with a reassuring tone.

She gave a small sniff again, "Lillian, but my dad calls me Lily, like the flower."

"Lillian and Lily are both very pretty names. My name is John and everything is going to be alright. My friend, who is helping your dad, is very smart and he will find us. Ok Lily, everything is going to be fine."

* * *

Sherlock gave a shout of excitement, now he was finally onto something. For several weeks, the terrorist were very careful about their tracks. Nothing could be traced as the paper they sent containing the first initial threats and demands were typed and printed on generic office paper and held no address, or any mark whatsoever that distinguished them from any other ordinary letter. When he examined the family cat that was nailed on the door, no evidence was left behind. The perpetrators did exactly what they wanted to do; they took the family cat, broke its neck with gloved hands and then simply nailed it onto the door with an ordinary hardware store nail.

Now, finally they made a mistake. The stones they threw through the window were not from the area; instead the stones were from a specific area near the Thames; where warehouses were built upon conglomerate rocks that had high concentrations of quartz and sandstone.

Sherlock got up from his crouched position with the rock in his hand as he began looking for the person he always discussed first with his observations. It wasn't because he liked hearing John say that he was brilliant or that it was amazing, no of course not. He just rather talk to John first because it was easier than trying to first withstand having to simplify his deductions for the slow, dull minds of Lestrade's workers.

As Sherlock began walking around the crime scene he could not spot the familiar sandy hair, or the ugly jumpers he had become so accustomed too. Finally he walked over to Lestrade, still holding the stone in his hand. He had the whole deduction ready in his mind, ready to tell Lestrade, or as much as the DI could handle at once, but for some reason the first sentence that blurted out of his mouth was, "Where's John?"

Lestrade looked genuinely perplexed at the question and he looked around as well. "Now that's odd, I saw him a few moments ago. You sure he's not here, somewhere talking to the forensics team?"

Sherlock gave an exasperated look, "Do you really think I didn't check if he was here or not before I had to ask you."

Before Lestrade had the opportunity to respond, the owner, Mr. Phillips came tottering up, his face slightly red and his eyes were hardened with concern. "Have you seen my Lillian?" He huffed out; he was clearly out of breath.

"She is this high," He gestured with his hand, "with brown hair that the nanny usually braids for her and she has beautiful green eyes. Have you seen her?!" He shouts out in frustration. He was beginning to sweat and he quickly wiped his brow with his sleeve.

"Sir, calm down. Now when was the last time you saw her?" Lestrade asks, as he uses what Sherlock deemed as his officer to citizen voice.

"She was trying to get my attention to go to the park with her, but I told her that I was busy and she began to have a temper and told me she was going to ask you." said as he pointed at Lestrade."

The DI, just shook his head, "Well she never came up to me, I was standing in front of the forensics labs van the whole time and never saw her approach me. Maybe she didn't ask me because I was yelling at one of the workers." Sherlock hoped it was Anderson.

"Is it possible that she just went off by herself?"

The owner quickly shook his head as her nervously wrung his hands together, "No I checked, the park is empty and she hates being alone, and especially would not have gone by herself after I told her that she needed to always have someone with her as I was having problems with bad people. She is a smart girl; she would have never gone off by herself and would only stay with people she trusted."

Sherlock decided to interject as he finished deducing the nervous man before him. "Why would she choose Lestrade?"

"She must have seen him around so often and he, being a cop, she probably thought he was the safest person to go to."

"Well that is just stupid." Sherlock says before he turned around and began heading towards the park.

The owner looked appalled as he tried to keep up with the long-legged man, "I beg your pardon?!" He looked at Lestrade who simply shrugged. The DI was used to Sherlock's behavior and although it wasn't exactly what he would have liked, Sherlock got the job done and it was just easier to let people get angry at the consulting detective than try to explain why the man was just like that.

Sherlock ignored the owner as he continued walking. "One, you should never have left her out of your sight if you have been getting threats, obviously kidnapping was bound to happen sooner or later and two, of course she didn't choose Lestrade who was yelling at the time. Who wants to go to the park with a man who yells? Instead she chose the next best option."

"And that is?" Lestrade asked as he also began walking alongside the men.

"John of course."

"Why John? She doesn't know him!"

"No, she doesn't, which is why she decided to take, what you might say a leap of faith. She must have seen John arrive with me and she knows that I have been working on your problem as long as you have. So who does she pick? Children usually don't choose me, for John says that I come off as too… intimidating."

Sherlock ignores the scoff from Lestrade and continues, "Children seem to be drawn to him. Perhaps it is his short status, his distasteful jumpers, or that he smells of tea, jam and toast, as it is his usual breakfast choice, and children prefer sweet smells, but John seems to give them a reason to trust. This must be why John is also missing. If my assumptions are correct, John has been taken along with your daughter."

They soon arrive at the park and Sherlock is back to crouching near the ground with his magnifying glass. "They were indeed here, John's shoe prints are distinguishable in the slightly flattened grass as well as a smaller shoe size next to him, to which I assume are your daughters. However behind them, larger, heavier shoeprints can be seen. Four men were here, and by the size of their boots, they range from around 5'10 to 6'4 in height."

The owner was flabbergasted, "How do you know all this? Please can you tell me if my daughter is safe?"

"She should be, as long as she doesn't do anything reckless on the ride to their hideout." Sherlock stands up and looks around the still empty park. "What a perfect place to kidnap someone. With the hedges so high and shrubbery growing abundant, no one would be able to see the kidnapping transpire." Sherlock exclaimed as he began walking pass the small playground to the other side of the park.

All it took was a simple glance at a few small smudges of tire tracks before Sherlock began spouting off more deductions. "The van must have been black, as it was camouflaged and hidden well enough from view underneath the dark shades of the trees for people not to notice. They must have been keeping watch of the park as well as your store for awhile now judging by the many discarded cigarette ends left behind."

"It's not like John to go quietly with them." Lestrade interjects with a frown.

"No, he wouldn't so they must be armed. John would only go along with them quietly, either to keep another safe or if he knew he was not in a position to refuse, which in this case is both." Sherlock then turned to Mr. Phillips with a coy smile on his face. "Maybe your daughter is not that stupid as I thought she was. Who better to choose than a soldier for a playmate?"

* * *

Author's Note

* * *

I wouldn't mind having John as a playmate if you know what I mean, wink wink.

If any reader out there wants to know my reasons behind the chapter names just send me a message and I can include it in the next chapter or in a personal message. Depends on how many responses I get or if anybody wants to know it all!

Or leave a review and tell me what you think on why I chose these specific teas. I love reading everyone's responses!


	7. Passionfruit Hibiscus

Hello!

Again, thanks to everyone who reviewed, alerted and favorite this story.

I do not own Sherlock or any characters in the show as they belong to BBC, the writers of Sherlock, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Here's another chapter of Thirsty. Enjoy!

* * *

Passionfruit Hibiscus

* * *

They weren't by themselves for all too long, maybe 20-30 minutes at most, before John could hear the heavy thudding of boots returning, along with…were those clacking noises, heels?

He then hears the clicking of the lock and then the sliding of the metal gates before the black bags over their heads were swiftly yanked off. The kidnappers didn't bother to loosen the tie that was around the bag and the quick tug left John slightly disorientated with a slight burn on his right cheek where the rough cloth had chaffed it.

A lean, buxom blonde, wearing a showy red dress with matching shoes and expensive looking sunglasses stood in front of six armed men that John recognized were there kidnappers. She was smoking a cigarette in a way that he had seen women do in spy movies, sultry yet condescending, as one of her hands rested at an angle on her hip.

The woman took off her sunglasses in a rapid and agitated manner. "Who the bloody hell is this? I thought I told you to only bring her!" She gestured to Lily who was watching with tears in her eyes.

"He was with her, and the only way to get the girl was to take both of them." The one with the hoarse voice answered. He seemed to be head of the kidnappers as he stood side by side with the women while the rest of the men stood behind them.

"M-mummy?"

John looked at Lily, and then at the lady she had called her mother. There was little resemblance; however they did both share the same green, hazel eyes. "You're her mother? Did you just honestly kidnap your own daughter?"

The woman blew out a gust of smoke, the smell made the air feel even more stagnant. "Please, I only gave birth to her. Oh don't look at me like that." She said with a scornful glare. "I'm not the one at fault here, I told George that I didn't what children; that I am still young and I need to breathe, to stretch my wings so to speak. But oh, did he make me feel loved." She began walking in a slow circle around the bound companions as her face looked off into space with a dreamy expression.

"He gave me with jewelry, designer bags, and red roses that smelt like expensive perfume, almost every day. When I got pregnant I reminded him that I wasn't prepared to have kids but then the luxuries just increased. He lavished me with anything I wanted. Life was so beautiful. Until I had to give birth, and ever since that day, it all went downhill and everything became...U_gly_." She said the word with so much hate that her face was filled with sore contempt and such a deep bitterness that suddenly John could see all the wrinkles appear on her face. Whatever that could have possibly made her attractive was now lost.

"That was the day everything had stopped. No more spa days, no more trips to the hair salon, not even a Chanel bag. All the attention that I had received before was now given to her andI lost everything!" Her shout echoed throughout the building and John could see that even a couple of her henchmen flinched from the noise.

Suddenly the tone of her voice changed. The almost frantic and furious tone she had before was now replaced with one that was sweet and slightly nauseating, like poisoned honey. "So I divorced him, took my share of the money and left them. I did tell him I didn't want kids."

John was furious, her reasons for her actions were ridiculous and she seemed to border on a bipolar personality. "Why do you need more money? What does kidnapping her do anything to help you?"

"I don't need to explain anymore than I already have." She turned to a henchman who wore sunglasses. "Take him to the back, we don't need him."

The man seemed hesitant. "What do you want me to do with him?"

"Dispose of him, kill him, chop him up into pieces for all I care. If we let him go he's just going to run to the police like a little rat and we can't have that now, can we?"

The man hesitated again as John saw him nervously swallow. Obviously the man was not expecting this to be part of the job description. The man walked up to John before roughly pulling him up by his shirt collar. "Come on you, or else I will shoot you right here right now."

As John obediently got up, he made quick eye contact with Lily who stared back with silent tears running down her face. He gave her a miniscule nod before he was pushed forward with the blunt tip of the man's gun.

He had to squint his eyes when they reached outside. Being inside a black bag and then a dimly lit warehouse for so long allowed his eyes to adjust to the lack of light but now outside, he could feel his pupils shrink to try to counteract with the brightness.

"Ok now walk farther out, I don't want to shoot you and get blood on my clothes." The henchmen said as he nervously pointed his gun in the direction of where he wanted John to stand.

John stopped walking and turned around, "Don't do this. You can still fix this; I can see that you are not a killer."

"W-What do you know! I could've killed hundreds of people like you, even children like that little girl in there!" Despite the stutter in his voice, it was blatantly obvious that he was uneasy as a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead.

John just calmly looked at the jumpy man with determined eyes. "I know because you are shaking, and because you left the safety on."

"What I didn't lea-"He was interrupted as John suddenly kicked the gun away from his hand and then gave a loud grunt as he received a second kick in his stomach that made him double over.

Sunglasses must have been wearing a pretty heavy jacket as he recovered faster than John expected. "YOU SON OF A BITCH!" He snarled and charged towards John like an angry bull.

He quickly tackled John onto the gravely dirt where they both fall to the ground. John's hand were still zip tied behind his back and was unable to fight back as the man straddled him and began to punch. Hit after hit, John was beginning to feel light headed. Finally, he sees a small opening as the man stopped to look at his fist. His inexperience with fighting was evident as his face warped with a grimace after looking at his swollen and bloody knuckles. Whether or not it was his blood or John's, John didn't wait to find out before he quickly smashed his head in a quick headbutt.

Sunglasses rolled off with a groan as John quickly scrambled to get up. He sees the gun a few feet away where he knocked it away earlier and tries to quickly scramble for it. A quick yank around his ankle sends him falling down again as sunglasses relentlessly tugged. Another punch in the face quickly disorientates John and when he finally is able to see straight he is staring up at the end of the gun.

The man's sunglasses were probably knocked off in the struggle as he is now squinting as well. "I've got you now."

"I will have to disagree with that statement." The man turns around right just as Sherlock delivered a quick blow with a wooden pole to his head. John sees blood and a tooth fly in the air before the man crumples to the ground.

"Sherlock! About bloody time!"

The consulting detective throws away the improvised weapon before quickly going over to John's side and began cutting away at his zip ties. When he was finally free, John rubbed his wrist around the area where they were rubbed raw and sore. He was about to get up before Sherlock swiftly swooped in and cupped his face with frantic hands.

Sherlock gave a rapid examination over John's body and face before looking intensely into his eyes. "John, are you alright? What happened? What did they do? " He sounded breathless as if he had just ran a marathon.

John swatted his hands away. "I'm fine, I'm fine, but Lily is inside with her mother."

"Her mother?"

"Yes, she's the kidnapper. Thank you" John said as Sherlock helped in up. "What should we do about him?" John gestured towards the unconscious man as he bent down to pick up the forgotten gun.

"Leave him." Before John could argue or have a say on the matter, Sherlock was already ahead of him and was at the warehouse back door. The dark-haired genius quickly opened the door and strode in as if he owned the place with John quickly following behind.

His sudden appearance seemed to have stunned the kidnappers who momentarily paused in their actions before stumbling for their guns. When they pointed their weapons on the duo, Sherlock stopped walking, standing in place as John stood next to him with his newly founded gun also raised up to the challenge.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John hissed past his shoulder. Although he was talking to Sherlock, he kept his eyes focused on Lily who now had duct tape over her mouth and was caught in her mother's harsh grip. Her mother had somehow gotten her hands on a small pistol and had it aimed at her daughter's temple.

Judging by how she wasn't shaking and the insanity that flickered in her eyes like a ravaging flame increased, she wasn't afraid to pull the trigger.

"Do not worry, Lestrade should be ready now." Sherlock whispered back before turning his attentions to the kidnappers. "I suggest you to place your weapons down now, the warehouse is surrounded."

The man with the hoarse voice gave a cough-like laugh. "Now, I have five armed men, you have a nanny that knows how to use a gun. The only reason as to why I am going to comply is if I had no choice. What do you think I am, an idiot?"

"That's exactly what you are."

Hoarse voice was about to argue back before he was interrupted by one of his own. "H-Hey I don't think he's lying, l-look at your chest."

The man looked down and sure enough there was a glowing red dot centered right where his heart would be. All the henchmen nervously looked at one another and quickly realized that they all had one focused on their bodies.

As if on cue, Lestrade's voice over a loudspeaker was heard outside of the warehouse.

"THIS IS THE POLICE, WE HAVE THE BUILDING SURROUNDED. COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD OR WE WILL SHOOT."

A couple of armed and well-armored men came cautiously through the warehouse entrance. All with their guns pointed and ready.

"This isn't what I signed up for! You said it would be an easy job and we would all get a good amount of the profit!" One of them men shouted while pointing viciously at the mother. He slowly put down his gun and placed his hands up. Another followed suit.

Soon all the men were being lead away with handcuffs; their weapons taken away as they walked with their heads bowed in shame. The only ones still left were the mother, the daughter, Sherlock and John.

The mother let out a shriek of frustration. "I knew hiring those cheap bastards would be a mistake!" She increased her chokehold on Lily as the girl's heavy frantic breathing could be heard and a small whimper escaped.

Sherlock's baritone voice interrupted the tense silence. "Surrender now, and with luck and a good attorney, your time in prison might be shortened."

"No no no no no, I am going to get my money! I have come too far to not get my money!" She screamed with hysteria. Her eyes almost seemed unreal with how wide she was opening them.

"Ms. Claudia Evans, is it? Don't be so surprised, I discovered your name when I read the background check on Mr. Phillips, your ex-husband when I began investigating the case. How was Nevada? I hear it is lovely this time of year. I must admit that I overlooked you being a possible suspect, as you left for North America, but I never thought you'd return to London. Especially not after all the money you received from the divorce, unless you've already gambled it all away.

"H-How…?"

"Simple. Judging by the tan on your body and the dry skin on your arms and hands you've been in an area that receives a lot of sunlight and is very dry. A desert then. According to the information that I've received from Mr. Phillips, you left to America to satisfy your gambling addictions. Your outfit seems out of place for a normal day routine but seeing as how well worn the heels of those shoes are, you must wear those Prada shoes, along with the matching dress often. The only reason why someone would wear clothes like that is if they were either used to wearing them so often, or if they enjoyed the attention, or if they were in an environment where wearing flashy clothes is the norm. In your case, it is all three. But all those minor details don't tell me as much as the expensive bracelet you are wearing on your left wrist made by the famous designer, Bradovani, who only has sells his jewelry in one location, Las Vegas, Nevada."

She did not answer, instead, John could see her anger rise more by the way her arms trembled and her lip curled into a gruesome snarl.

John decided an intervention was necessary before Sherlock could aggravate her even more. "Let go of Lillian, she doesn't deserve this."

A few minutes ticked by as she seemed to really consider this. Finally she hesitantly let go, her face looking down at the ground in defeat. As Lillian began walking over to Sherlock, John let out a sigh with relief.

"Now, give me the gun." He said as he began inching his way towards her. Ms. Evans still faced the ground, her body had gone limp and her hand that held the pistol just casually hung to the side.

A brief cry distracted John as he looked over to see Sherlock holding up Lily. Apparently her knee was a lot worse than she had thought as it had begun to swell and was turning into a nasty shade of purple. The small glance he made at them was a mistake. Maybe Ms. Evans was waiting for an opening or maybe the cry from Lily brought out of her stupor because suddenly she lifted the pistol up again and pulled the trigger.

John wasn't too sure who he was trying to protect at that moment. Maybe it was Lily or maybe it was Sherlock but his body instinctually reacted and he ran and jumped over in front of the two. The last thing he remembered at that point was feeling an all too familiar pain pierce his shoulder and hearing the voice he had come to love shout his name. Then everything became black.

* * *

The first thing he realized when he felt his consciousness being dredged up from the sweet darkness, was how heavy his eyelids and head felt. As if they were stuffed with heavy sandbags that muffled the sensations of the environment around him. Opening his eyes was a regretful decision as the soft white walls of the hospital felt like staring into the sun. His low groan brought the attention of someone sitting beside his bed as he felt a cool, rough hand grasp his own hand while another hand cupped his right cheek. The person's thumb gave a small stroke.

"John, wake up. John I need you to wake up and look at me. Please, I need this."

With more energy than he would have thought to have needed to exert, John slowly re-opened his eyes, allowing them to momentarily adjust. He was met with the sight of a disheveled Sherlock sitting so close to him he had to try to not go cross-eyed.

"We have got to stop meeting like this." John breathily murmured. It was hard to keep his voice steady as his heart felt like it was drumming from out of his chest.

Before John could say another word, he felt chapped lips upon his own as he was pulled into a kiss that made his heart stutter. Now, John was no stranger to kissing. He's had soft ones, hard ones, gentle ones, and ones that were so rugged with raw desire it would make one's toes curl.

But this kiss, made it feel like it was his very first. It was as if before this kiss he was lost in quicksand, and now he had found an oasis; as if his body was drowning, and yet he was finally able to breathe. A knock at the door made them both jump, although the men would never admit it and the two quickly pulled apart just as a nurse came in to check on her patient. As she busied herself around him, John could still feel his lips tingle.

* * *

When John had jumped in front of Sherlock and Lillian to take the bullet, one of the snipers shot the mother, but had purposely aimed at her arm, making her drop her weapon but not killing her. Apparently, killing the mother in front of her child, no matter how cruel she may be, would be traumatic on the child. Sherlock scoffed with disdain when he heard this. Sentiment was what got John shot in the shoulder, close to his older wound, too close. If they had taken the shot earlier and killed her, this could have been avoided.

The henchmen were all apprehended after giving up. That's what you get for hiring cheap thugs, you get equally cheap commitment. Ms. Evans was taken into custody, Lily was safe, back with her father, and the case ended with Lily sending him a get-well card containing an invitation to come play with her again.

Now John and Sherlock both sat in the hospital, waiting for John to be discharged. Sherlock wouldn't leave until his flatmate was also ready and with a stubborn steely look, the hospital had no choice but to let Sherlock stay.

"So, were you jealous of Tiffany?" John asked as he sat eating what he thought was meatloaf. He could never tell with hospital food. Sherlock sat next to him, his eyes focused on the mini television screen on the wall as he tried to understand the entertainment John and Mrs. Hudson got from watching crap telly.

He couldn't see Sherlock's face as it remained facing forward at the t.v but the stiff straightening of the consulting detective's spine answered John's question.

"Who's Tiffany?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"Oh come on, don't do that. You know who I'm talking about."

Sherlock quickly turned around, so fast, that it startled John into dropping his fork back onto his plate.

"Tell me John. Do you still want normal. Do still want that life?" His glasz-colored eyes were stormy and looked deeply into John's hazel eyes as if they held all the answers in the world.

John contemplated the questions for a moment. Was this what the awkward and tense situations were about? Why Sherlock was acting so disgruntled and snappy with him? But, wait, he did have a point. Did John really want that kind of life? A life without smelly body parts in the fridge, 3 a.m. violin playing, aggravating experiments, or danger behind every corner. That would be nice for a change.

But then, that meant no more interesting, intellectual conversations, beautiful violin melodies, or excitement from the adventures they had. Life would be dull, gray and meaningless. With this consulting detective his life would be a constant thrill; with his flatmate everyday was filled with colors. With Sherlock his life had a purpose.

John came to a conclusion and he answered it the only way he knew how.

"Sherlock, I want to be honest with you. Normal was never going to happen as long as I lived with you." Sherlock eyes seem to falter for a moment, a flicker of pure emotions flitted by before being covered with a steely dark expression that John had seen when Sherlock was emotionally compromised by the Woman.

John quickly rectified the consulting detective's injured look by taking Sherlock's cold hands into his own warm ones. "But, Sherlock, that's exactly why I love being with you." And then John immediately pulled Sherlock in for another thirst-quenching kiss.

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Author's Note

* * *

WOOO! Finished! This is the first story that I've began and actually ended and I am feeling quite proud of myself! Yes, you read this right, this is the last chapter of Thirsty. I felt that I could not go any further than I already have with this story of fluff and thought that this was the appropriate time to end it. Wow this is the longest chapter that I've ever written. Pride is swelling up in me like a puffer fish.

Although writing this fic was harder than I originally thought, and I was pretty rusty starting off, it was a lot of fun. I am planning on writing more in the future and with dedication and time management, put out another fic!

To everyone that continued reading this story, alerted, favorited, and reviewed it, I just have to say, thank You. To actually see that people like what I write means a lot to me and every time I saw my e-mail inbox with another alert from fanfiction I would just light up with happiness.

I hope you've all enjoyed this story and once again, Thank you.


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